


A Manual Respite

by betts



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Massage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: For the prompt: Massage therapist Bellamy helps Clarke relax.





	A Manual Respite

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probs be posting km fills weekly-ish.

After the shitty year Clarke has had, Raven bought her a gift card for a massage. She’s never had a massage before. She kind of hates the thought of it — a total stranger, touching her all over. Clarke is touch averse on her worst days, shies away even from the most innocent and loving of hugs. It’s not that she doesn’t like being touched, it’s that she’s too sensitive. A light hand on the small of her back is enough to set her entire body on fire. Relationships and everything that come with them have always been a struggle. She’s fine giving but rarely receiving. The few times she’s had sex, she needed to get stoned beforehand, or take a Klonopin just to loosen up a little.   
  
Raven knew all this, and bought her the gift card anyway. “This guy is seriously the best,” she said.  
  
“Did he give you a discount for a referral?” Clarke asked.  
  
“No,” Raven said adamantly. Then, “Only ten percent.” Then, “And another ten because I fucked him, so I get the friends and family discount.”  
  
“You fucked your masseuse?”  
  
“Dear god, Clarke, what world do you live in where you _wouldn’t_ want to fuck the hot guy who knows every inch of your body?”  
  
“Me.”  
  
“I’m just saying, if he offers, you should accept. He doesn't do it for everyone.”  
  
The place is in a strip mall between a fro-yo restaurant and a vape shop. The inside is simply and tastefully decorated, a cross between a dentist’s office and the BMV. Clarke signs in on a little sheet and sits down. There are no magazines on the table, or a TV blaring infomercials. Just silence filled with the light clacking of a receptionist at the front. The air smells like the aromatherapy candles in Clarke's apartment.  
  
After a few minutes, a tall, stern-looking woman with glazed-over eyes comes out, jacket hooked over her arm. A man in white follows behind her and says, “See you next week, Echo.”  
  
“You too,” she says, head ducked. Her cheeks are flushed pink. The door jingles as she exits.   
  
“You must be Raven’s friend,” the man says to her. He holds out his hand. “I’m Bellamy.”  
  
She stands and shoulders her purse and shakes his hand. “Hi.”  
  
He keeps hold of her hand for a beat too long, and says, “Wow, you’re really tense.”  
  
“Sorry.” She adjusts her purse strap and tugs at the hem of her shirt. “It’s been a hard year.”  
  
His smile is warm, and she finds herself a little excited at the prospect of being touched for once, in a place where it’s allowed, where she’s not expected to have any specific reaction or please anyone else.   
  
“You’re in the right place,” he says.  
  
He leads her down a hallway into a small room. It’s painted in dark blue, dimly lit, warm. Soft music is coming from a small speaker in the corner, wooden flutes and chimes. A massage table stands in the center of the room, a white blanket folded on top.   
  
“Take off as much or as little as you want,” Bellamy says. “Then lie down on the table however you’re comfortable. You can cover yourself with the blanket if you want. I’ll be back in five minutes.”  
  
“Thanks,” she says shyly, and he leaves.   
  
She wore a pair of shorts and a tanktop under her clothes, figuring that was as undressed as she was willing to get, but now, after meeting him, she feels more relaxed than she expected, and takes off all her clothes, folds them neatly on a chair in the corner, and hops up onto the table. She tugs the blanket around her back and lies down, her face in the weird circle pillow that she’s only ever seen in movies and those chairs at the mall.  
  
By the time Bellamy returns, Clarke has dozed off. The click of the door closing jolts her awake; she didn’t realize how tired she was. She hears Bellamy moving around, his hands rubbing together as he approaches at her side.   
  
“Raven told me a bit about you,” he says.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“You don’t like being touched.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s true.”  
  
“Are you ready?”  
  
"I think so."

He puts his hands between her shoulder blades, warm and slick with oil. He spreads his fingers outward, pushing down and out over the tops of her shoulders. On impulse, she shrugs up to her ears. He pushes back down.  
  
“I need you to try and relax for me, okay?” he asks.  
  
“I don’t know how to do that without medication.”  
  
“Close your eyes and focus on you breath, and where I’m touching you.”  
  
He digs his thumbs into her shoulder blades, at first symmetrically, then both hands moving to her right side, kneading the muscle there. “You’re like a rock.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Nothing to be sorry for.” His hands feel enormous and confident as they move over her back and down her arms. “You want to tell me what happened? What’s made the year so rough?”  
  
“My dad died, my boyfriend cheated on me, and my mom got addicted to painkillers.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that.”  
  
She shrugs, or tries to, but he catches her shoulder and brings it back down. “It happens.”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Well,” she says, “it did. And there’s not much I can do about it, so.”  
  
He makes a thoughtful noise and continues silently. She finds herself spacing out, doing that thing where her mind drifts to work and errands and email. Then his thumb digs into a spot at the back of her neck and she gasps, body going completely limp, like an off switch. It almost hurts, how hard he’s digging into her, but in a good way, like a knot untangling.  
  
He continues downward, folds the blanket as he goes, and his fingers brush the sides of her breasts. She jerks slightly.  
  
“Raven told me that, too,” he says.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That you’re sensitive.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s —” She pulls in a sharp breath when he reaches her kidneys. “A problem.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“I get overwhelmed. Overstimulated. And —” She stops herself from saying what was about to come out of her mouth.  
  
“And what?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“You can tell me.”  
  
“Easily turned on. But like, not in a good way.”  
  
He makes another thoughtful noise, jams his thumbs into her lower back, hands resting on her hips. She tries to force her body not to react, her throat to remain silent, but she can’t help it. Her lower back is one of the most sensitive parts of her body, and as he continues rubbing circles into it, she’s mortified by the low moan in her throat.  
  
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”  
  
It’s the hardest to handle but the biggest reward. She had no idea how much tension she carried in her lower back. She already feels like she can breathe more deeply now that it’s been released.  
  
He lifts the blanket from her legs and folds it upward. Now it’s only covering her ass, and she wonders if he can see between her legs. If he’s even looking.  
  
He starts at her foot and makes his way to her calf, and then her thigh. She stifles a gasp when his fingers slide up and up, and she relaxes again when he switches to the other leg. This time when he reaches her thigh, he goes even higher, grazing her cunt lightly with the side of his finger, so casually she thinks it must be an accident. Still, a small shift of her hips reveals alarming slickness pooled between her legs. For a second she wishes he would go ahead and touch her there, relieve some of the pressure he’s built. An image flits through her head — Raven lying in this exact spot, legs open, allowing Bellamy full access to her. Raven knows what feels good. She chases after everything she wants. Clarke admires that about her.  
  
Bellamy tugs the blanket down over her legs, and up on her back, where he holds it aloft and says, “You can roll onto your back now. I won’t look.”  
  
She hesitates. Her face won’t be hidden on her back. He’ll be able to see how flushed her cheeks and chest are. He’ll hear every sharp inhale, see every reaction.   
  
Raven wouldn’t hesitate. She probably didn’t even have the blanket. Clarke rolls as gracefully onto her back as she can. True to his word, Bellamy isn’t trying to catch a peek. He lowers the blanket over her and starts at the tops of her shoulders again. This time Clarke can anticipate what it’ll feel like, and lets herself sink into the pressure of his palms. He works his way down each arm, all the way to her hands, where he massages her wrist and palm and each individual finger, which strangely delights her. She didn’t know she had tension in her hands, but now it’s seeping away.

“Your call,” he says softly. “Do you want me to lower the blanket?”  
  
Her voice feels like it comes from far away when she says, “Yeah, that’s fine.”  
  
And then the blanket is lowered from her chest. She watches his face for any discernible reaction, knowing her tits are everyone’s favorite thing about her, but he reveals nothing. He probably sees great tits all the time. He lifts the bottom of the blanket up, so only a strip of it is covering her hips. She should be more self-conscious than she is, but she can’t be bothered anymore, not when she’s more relaxed than she’s felt in a decade.  
  
He massages her hips and sides and stomach, all the way to the bottom of her breasts. There he stops, which is as infuriating as it is relieving, to have someone else’s hands lift away the weight of her chest for just a moment. She lets out a soft sigh as he moves to the sides of her breasts, then a spot under her arm that makes her flinch.  
  
“Sorry,” she says again. “Ticklish.”  
  
“Should’ve guessed.”  
  
He moves down the table again, and she misses his presence beside her. She should have told him she wanted more attention on her chest, whatever he was doing just a moment ago.

"Can you..." she begins. "Do that again?"

His lips purse like he's trying hard not to smile, and he brings his hands up to her breasts again. "This?"

"Yeah, but. More."

She closes her eyes as he cups her breasts and runs his thumbs over her nipples. Her mouth falls open and her back arches up, seeking more of his touch. He rewards her by pinching both of her nipples and pulling a little. 

"Like that?" he asks.

She nods. If he continues, she might actually be able to orgasm like this, can feel herself soaking the table. She'd kill for his mouth anywhere on her body. Sounds are coming out of her mouth that no one has ever been able to elicit from her. 

He moves back down. She's both grateful and frustrated. He’s at her feet again, massages her shin, her thigh. And like before, when he switches to the other, he goes a little further up, grazing her cunt once more, only this time, he stays there, rubbing her upper thigh, enough to tease her. Just the outer labia, not anywhere that counts.  
  
His other hand is on her stomach under the blanket, resting lightly over her lower abdomen. She almost whines, nearly begs, spreads her legs apart in invitation. It works — his fingers finally slip to her center. She lets in a sharp breath, opens her legs wider.

"You're soaked," he says softly.

"Told you."  
  
He gently circles her clit with his middle finger. She should tell him to stop. She should climb off the table and get dressed and leave, but she’s frozen to the spot, except for her knee which bends up to give him more access. She’s afraid to open her eyes to see what she might find on his face, but she does. He’s staring at her, expression dark, and uses her attention to slide his finger inside her.   
  
“Raven told me a lot,” he says, “but she didn’t tell me you’d feel this good.”  
  
And that’s when she notices the tent in his track pants, his other hand cupping his bulge and readjusting.

He slips a second finger into her, curls them up and reaches a spot she can barely find herself. Her cunt spasms as she nearly comes right then, has to smack a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. He brings his other hand back to where it was, flat against her pubic bone right over where his fingertips are pressing up inside of her. The blanket fell to the floor at some point — she’s totally exposed to him, open to him.  
  
“Ever had a g-spot orgasm?” he asks.  
  
She shakes her head.   
  
“You’re about to.”

She can’t tell what exactly he’s doing inside of her, but it’s steady and hard, so intense it’s bordering on painful, like he’s trying to pull every bad thing that’s ever happened out of her. His movements speed up, grow harsher, and soon she’s panting and gripping the sides of the table. Her knees are up, legs open wide.   
  
“I own this place,” he says. “You can be as loud as you want.”  
  
Every orgasm she’s ever had has been a struggle of concentration and extreme effort. She’s spent hundreds of dollars on useless toys, apologized endlessly to disappointed partners, cleared her browser history of some truly shameful porn. She’s never felt this before, an orgasm building in her completely out of her control, unable to stop it even if she tried.   
  
The wet sloshing noises are a shock. Her walls start to pulse hard around his fingers before she’s even aware she’s reached the edge. A surge of pleasure ripples up her back, down her limbs. Her hips lift off the table and she cries out. He pushes her hips back down and continues fucking her with his fingers. She feels completely empty, yet somehow he pulls more from her. She can’t tell if it’s a second orgasm or a continuation of the first, but it just keeps going, wave after wave after wave, until she has no perception of time or space, no longer knows where she is or who she is or how her body has turned into a supernova.   
  
When she climbs down, she feels like she’s in a brand new body, one without grief banging around in her ribcage, without years of hard work and self-sacrifice etched into her muscles.  
  
She’s lost track of Bellamy, but can still feel him somewhere in the room. A faucet is running. She’s too spent to turn her head. She should offer to reciprocate, help him with his erection. No, she tells herself. She doesn’t have to. She can have this just for herself. She had a gift card.  
  
Finally she sits up, runs a hand over her face. A glass of water is put into her grasp. She drinks the whole thing, then stares into the cup. “This whole time, I thought something was wrong with me."  
  
He rubs her lower back. Her eyes fall shut. Distantly, she can hear him telling her something about staying hydrated over the next couple days, something else about toxins. It’s probably important, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t need to care about anything anymore. She’s weightless.

**Author's Note:**

> bettsfic on tumblr, twitter, and dw.


End file.
